


hair

by buu



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 12:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8579203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buu/pseuds/buu
Summary: It's Victor, of course. He looks the same as always, but something about that long hair framing his face, strands dipping over one eye makes him look softer. Yuri feels a little dizzy watching, like he's stepped through some time portal, like he's small again and watching awestruck as Victor spins on TV. Except this time, Victor is looking back at him, tilting his head so the hair folds over his shoulder.





	

**Author's Note:**

> happy canon kiss day!!! there is..actual sex in this one (灬º 艸º灬)

For Yuri, there's always that instant lingering in the back of his mind, the one where he'd first seen Victor Nikiforov, willowy limbs and silken hair cascading over his back, and decided he must be the most beautiful person on Earth. Even then, before Yuri had an idea of love or attraction or anything other than a basic sense of beauty, he'd known.

The Victor of today, short hair and soft smile that always reaches his eyes, is just as beautiful, but Yuri's never forgotten that hair, the way it made Victor look ethereal, like something out of a fairyland. It's not that Victor isn't lovely now, because he is, absolutely, the most gorgeous man on the planet, but sometimes Yuri daydreams about that hair the same as he has over the years he's been stumbling in Victor's footsteps. It's featured prominently in secret dreams and fantasies over the years; it's not something he can just...forget about. Even if that's not the Victor he has now.

Maybe that's why, when Yuri walks into Victor's room to ask about something—they're well beyond the point of knocking—he thinks maybe this is another dream. Or maybe he's walked into the wrong room, maybe this is a guest and he's just made a horrible mistake, but this is Victor's room; the matryoshka, the bed, the lamp. Maybe Yuri has walked in on someone Victor's brought home, and the thought makes Yuri's stomach clench—

Before the person on the bed turns around, and yes, that is very much Victor. The Victor in the photos, long hair dripping over his shoulders.

He blinks at Yuri, surprised, and then there's that beam that feels like the moon itself is glowing in the room.

Victor stands up when Yuri stumbles back, mouth open, shocked. Is he dreaming? He has to be dreaming. It's like those other dreams he's had, but the door frame digging into his back feels too real, and the hand on his wrist steadying him is too warm and familiar and solid. Yuri breathes out, in, out—

“You look like you've seen a ghost”, Victor says, and really. How can he say that at a time like this?

When Yuri calms down enough to fully focus, he realizes this really isn't the Victor from the past, as much as it seems like it. This Victor is older, features more defined, a little less feminine, still amazing and wonderful. Yuri breathes again.

“Your hair,” he finally manages to get out, voice tight and high and strained even though he wills it not to be.

Victor's mouth forms an 'o', like he's forgotten all about it, and he lets go of Yuri's arm, tugs the long strands. Yuri watches, dumbfounded, as the ribbons of silver slip over and off, and there's the Victor he knows, hair short and messy and ruffled from the wig.

A wig. Yuri stares.

Suddenly, he feels embarrassed, frustrated, like he's being teased and made fun of. He feels his cheeks heat up and glares halfheartedly from behind his glasses before looking away. Victor is playing a joke on him, or something. He has to be. Why else would he be wearing a wig like that? Then again, Victor's always been a little weird; he does a lot of things Yuri doesn't always understand, and this is one of them.

“Yuri.” There's a hand on his arm again, a soft thump as the heavy hair falls to the floor. “You look upset, I thought you'd like it? Yuko told me how upset you were when I cut my hair.”

It's true, Yuri had been upset. What a waste, he'd lamented, all that beautiful hair, and Victor, a familiar and comforting face, had suddenly seemed so foreign and different. But things had gone on, and Victor remained the same beautiful, lovely skater, and Yuri had remained the same plain, boring failure, and here he is in Yuri's room teasing him about...about what, that Yuri had been enamored? That he still sort of is?

Yuri makes a face that he wishes looked mad instead of like he was about to cry. He can feel it burning behind his eyes.

“You're making fun of me,” he manages to say, voice low and tight, and wants to pull his arm away. He's never been mad at Victor, but this is the closest thing he's ever been. Victor found out this secret Yuri's been keeping, that he...that he—

“No, no, no.” Victor's tone changes, like someone trying to sooth a child, and while Yuri wants to stay mad it sort of works. Victor's voice is so nice and familiar now. “Here. Come here.”

Yuri allows himself to be led to Victor's bed, sat down on it. He sniffs, shoulders slumping, and feels ridiculous. Of course Victor wouldn't be making fun of him. He's such a good person, so nice, has traveled all the way out here to stay with Yuri and be his coach. Why does Yuri feel so defensive?

He...knows why. He doesn't want to admit it, not out loud, not to himself.

There's a soothing hand on his back, warm palm, long fingers. It goes up and down, and Yuri lets himself sink back against it without really thinking. He keeps seeing flashes of Victor in that wig, intermingled with memories of watching Victor skate, of wanting to be just like him, of wanting...

“I thought it would be nice for you to see me with long hair, in person.” Victor scoots close; their thighs touch. He's always good at comforting, and Yuri breathes out. “You didn't like it.”

And now Yuri feels bad. Of course Victor had just been being nice. Of course he doesn't get it. Yuri breathes in, and then out again.

“No. I mean, I liked it.” For a second, he had liked it, between shock and realization. “It's just...”

Just what? Something he's been in denial over for a long time. Something he'd told himself he was silly and stupid for dreaming about Victor Nikiforov, long gorgeous hair, longer limbs, smiling at him and telling him he's a beautiful skater. The memory makes Yuri's cheeks burn with embarrassment, and he fidgets, rubs his knees together.

Victor is leaning in, close enough that Yuri can feel the breath on his cheek.

“It's something I've always felt weird about,” Yuri admits, squeezing his eyes closed. “People would make fun of me.”

There's a tick of silence, and then Yuri can feel Victor pulling back, and he knew it, it was weird to be that into Victor's hair, to comment on how nice it was to the other kids in the rink. Victor has to think he's a weirdo. He must regret his decision to do something nice for Yuri when Yuri's only been rude back for reasons that are...

There are fingers under his chin, and Yuri lets his head tip up to meet Victor's gaze. He's dazed for a minute—Victor's eyes always do that, somehow—before the heat flushes down his face and over his ears again. Because Victor doesn't look mad, or offended, or even the tiniest bit serious. He's smiling.

“I won't make fun of you.” 

And there it is. Of course Victor wouldn't make fun of Yuri. He could have made fun of him, blasted him on social media when Yuri skated his routine, but he didn't. He's never once teased Yuri about things that actually hurt, because Victor isn't a mean person. He's wonderful.

The sentiment must be showing on Yuri's face, because Victor's smile widens and he pulls back, leaving Yuri's chin feeling decidedly cold. Yuri doesn't ask what Victor's doing, because he knows already; he watches Victor cross the room, pick up the tangles of silver.

“Close your eyes,” he says, and Yuri obediently does so, feeling—feeling what? It's different from earlier, the twist in his stomach. Something excited and a little nervous. This is something he'd dreamed about when he was little, meeting Victor, telling him how amazing and lovely and wonderful he was. Yuri's childhood fantasies have decidedly grown up; he no longer wants Victor to see all the posters he has of him, but...the hair is still there. It really had been a shame when Victor cut it.

There's a little bit of rustling, and after a minute or so Victor permits Yuri to open his eyes, and he does.

It's Victor, of course. He looks the same as always, but something about that long hair framing his face, strands dipping over one eye makes him look softer. Yuri feels a little dizzy watching, like he's stepped through some time portal, like he's small again and watching awestruck as Victor spins on TV. Except this time, Victor is looking back at him, tilting his head so the hair folds over his shoulder.

“I like it,” Yuri says, hands clenched in his lap. “You look...you look good. You always look good, but—”

Yuri's face is warm as he fumbles over his words. It's the same Victor, he reminds himself, as Victor steps forward, reaches his hand out. Yuri, head feeling cottony and light, takes Victor's hand.

He expects himself to be pulled up. What he does not expect is for Victor to move forward, for his own back to be pressed against the mattress as Victor crawls over him, and Yuri's suddenly left looking up at that familiar face framed by ribbons of silver. It's—breathtaking, and Yuri wheezes ungracefully, fingers pressed into the soft of the mattress by his sides.

What is this? Is this some kind of weird roleplay? Does it count if Victor's roleplaying as himself? All of these are rapid-firing through Yuri's head when Victor dips lower, lower, and strands of hair tickle and fall against Yuri's face. This is a really high-quality wig, as Yuri finds out when he reaches up without thinking, takes some of it in his fingers.

Victor practically beams, like he's done something great, and he sort of has. Victor always has liked surprising people, after all, and this definitely surprised Yuri.

“It's heavier than I remember,” Victor says, and Yuri realizes they're close enough for him to see every fleck of blue in Victor's eyes. “I don't know how I skated with all this weight.”

It really is long. Yuri can't even imagine, but it had been Victor's signature for so long that he never even questioned it. Maybe that's why he cut it off, because people were used to it...and yeah, that seems like a very Victor thing to do.

He finds himself smiling faintly, and that's when Victor dips closer, nose to nose. He's ridiculously flexible, but Yuri supposes that's to be expected.

“You like it,” Victor states, and he sounds very satisfied. He looks even more satisfied when Yuri nods, sheepish, glancing away.

Yes, Yuri likes it. He really likes it.

“You've thought about it,” and Yuri nods again, because...because he has. He'd been going through puberty, of course he thought about it. It's something he's never admitted, not even really, truly to himself. If Victor's long, silky hair featured (prominently) in his fantasies, Yuri didn't think about it. But he's definitely thinking about it now, because Victor's long hair is framing his own face, making a curtain that separates the two of them from anything else.

Victor did this for him. It would be rude to ignore that.

So Yuri doesn't. His hand only shakes a little when he lifts it, cradles the back of Victor's head to pull him close enough for their lips to touch.

Yuri is still a little clumsy with this. It always takes him a few tries to get the angles right, but Victor never, ever complains or teases him; he just patiently shows Yuri how, or lets Yuri find his own way. It seems to be the latter today, although he does assist in tilting his head, sliding their lips together a little more fully. Victor's lips are always so soft.

There's something warm and wet against Yuri's mouth, suddenly, and this always catches him a little off-guard. He thinks he's getting better at anticipating it, or at least rolling with it, because this time he doesn't even make a noise when he opens his mouth, lets Victor's tongue in. There the rustle of hair as Victor reaches up and slips Yuri's glasses off—he's always so good at remembering about that—and then they're kissing, truly and properly, Victor licking into Yuri's mouth and Yuri trying his best to kiss back.

He only flinches a little when Victor's knee rubs high between his legs.

Yeah, he's...getting hard. This is embarrassing, and Yuri wants to apologize for being so gross, feels like he's taining something, but Victor just makes a noise like he knows what Yuri's trying to do and kisses harder. He takes the breath and the words straight from Yuri's tongue and turns them into something better, slick wet noises and heavy breaths and sounds coming from Victor's throat.

When they pull back, finally, Yuri is dazed and flushed and staring at Victor's red, wet mouth.

“You look lovely like this,” Victor says, as he always does, because Victor is nice and amazing and too good. He reaches up past the curtain of hair and smooths Yuri's away from his forehead. 

Yuri licks his lips.

“You look lovely, too.” There. He's said it. His voice is awkward and timid, but he doesn't stutter and he doesn't hold it back. Yuri's wanted to tell Victor this for so long, since he was little, and he finally is, reaching up and tucking those long strands behind Victor's ear. Victor leans against Yuri's hand and smiles, smiles, smiles, and Yuri feels like crying. But the good type of crying.

He doesn't, though, because he's learned firsthand how quickly that can change Victor's mood from amorous to worried.

“Did you, um.” Yuri falters when Victor doesn't say anything. Are they just kissing, or...? He swallows, looks to the side, and then shyly back up at Victor before biting the bullet. Bold, he tells himself. It's easier said than done. “Did you want to do anything?”

Victor hums like he's thinking, tilts his head, lets the hair spill over his face again and Yuri watches, mesmerized. He knows Victor is watching him equally so, and it makes Yuri's skin tingle.

He gets his answer when Victor moves, when he shifts his knee up, and Yuri bites back a noise.

“Let me do everything,” Victor says, voice low and soft and warm. Yuri wants to protest, to say Victor always does everything, but something about the sincerity in his voice and the way he looks at Yuri makes him bite back those noises, too. It's hard to ever say no to Victor, especially not when he looks like this, cheeks flushed from the kissing.

The lack of pressure when Victor sits back is a little disappointing, but Yuri's treated to the sight of Victor sliding his shirt off, careful, and then that hair fanning over bare shoulders. He hesitates for a moment, one hand raised to touch, before Victor is reaching forward and taking Yuri's hand in his own, guiding it up to press a palm to Victor's shoulder. He's warm and silky soft, but this time there's the added texture of the hair falling down his skin.

This shouldn't be making Yuri as excited as it is. He's probably a pervert.

Victor doesn't seem to care. In fact, he seems to like it, if the way he pushes his body against Yuri's hand is any indication. Yuri's always known that Victor likes to show off—it sort of comes with the territory—but it never fails to make him feel breathless and lucky. Victor is here, with him, doing this for Yuri to see.

Yuri lets his fingers trail down, over Victor's chest, across his abdomen. He has muscle, but it's lean and smooth, makes Victor slim and gorgeous. Yuri sees flashes of all his performances, but nothing is as beautiful as Victor bare-skinned and smiling.

“You're always like this,” Victor comments, and Yuri looks away again when his hands go to the front of his pants, flick away the button. “I don't think anyone's touched me like you do.”

Which is awful and terrible, because Victor should always, always be touched this way. Like he's something special, because he is, and Yuri still doesn't believe this is happening no matter how many times it's happened before. He steadies his hand on Victor's waist when he lifts himself up, shimmies out of his pants and his underwear and...and wow, he's really going all for it, isn't he? No pretenses, no anything. Yuri feels faint and flushed and really, really turned on.

And then Victor is moving again, away from Yuri's hand. Yuri only has a split second to feel bad about it, the lack of touch, before Victor's hand is coming up and threading their fingers together, squeezing, palm-to-palm. He always knows, somehow. The hair tickles Yuri's stomach where his shirts started to ride up, and then Victor's fingers brush just so—

And there goes the button of Yuri's pants.

He makes an embarrassed noise, other hand coming up to press over his face. This part is always the most embarrassing, no matter how many times they do it. Victor always laughs and tells him not to be embarrassed, that he's beautiful, and that just makes it worse, makes the blush on Yuri's cheeks darken. Doesn't Victor know what he's saying. He does, absolutely. He just has no shame.

No shame, like when he pulls Yuri's pants open, tugs them down, and suddenly Yuri is the one whose dick is half-hard right in front of Victor's face.

“Wonderful,” Victor says, and Yuri tries to knee him. Embarrassing.

He doesn't have much time to worry about it, though, because when Yuri peeks through his fingers, Victor is tucking the hair behind his ear, squeezing Yuri's hand, and—

And going down on him, oh.

Oh.

Yuri makes a proper noise this time, loud and surprised and ripped out of his throat. Victor has...done this before, but this is so sudden; Yuri hadn't really known what to expect, and he's startled by the heat and the wet and the slick feeling of Victor's tongue on him. And Victor is always so good at this; he knows where to press, where to lick, what to do to make Yuri's thighs shake and his breath stutter.

This time, though, it's a little different. This time, Yuri's eyes catch on the silver framing Victor's face, his dick—it looks dirty, but at the same time...

Victor's eyes catch his, and Yuri goes red, but he doesn't look away. Victor is well aware of what he's thinking; he must be, the way he hollows his cheeks and sucks, the way he drags Yuri's cock out of his mouth and presses it back in. It sounds filthy, and Victor looks like there's nothing he'd rather be doing, like Yuri is the best person he's ever been with.

It makes Yuri hot from his ears all the way down.

Honestly, he could come just like this, strands of Victor's hair tickling his bare thighs, the pressure and the heat. He's reaching out a hand, shaky, to warn Victor—

And then cold air, really cold, and a gasp works its way out of Yuri's throat. Why did Victor stop? He looks up, dazed, half-lidded, confused.

Victor, risen to his knees, looks down, eyes sharp, lips still wet.

Yuri's breath catches again.

So they must be doing That. He feels his cock throb between his legs and lifts a hand to trap the noise in his mouth. Victor lets go of Yuri's hand, finally, to bend and twist. There's the soft curve of Victor's body as he reaches over, and Yuri lets his eyes linger a moment on Victor's ass—it's okay, it's a secret—as he rummages for something in a bedside drawer.

Unfortunately, Yuri knows very well what he's looking for, because he'd been with Victor when he bought it. In a small corner store, a place where anyone who knows Yuri could walk in and see the tall, foreign man cheerfully buying supplies that are definitely suspicious. But they need it, Victor had protested, and it's always better to be prepared, because what if they were in the middle of—

Yuri had shut him up, a hand clapped over his mouth, glancing around frantically to make sure nobody heard. But he gets it. And it's come in handy.

This part is always a little awkward. Victor does his best to make it nice, but there's that stretch, slick cool feeling. Yuri closes his eyes and tells himself to relax and waits.

And waits.

Nothing happens.

He peeks an eye open, wondering if maybe they're out, if Victor has changed his mind, a variety of terrible scenarios. But no, Victor's right there, dick hard between his thighs—god, he looks good—and...

And his face is flushed, hair falling over his shoulders, mouth halfway open, eyes closed. He looks like a marble statue carved in the form of ecstasy, and it's not fair for a person to look that way.

Yuri's hands fly to his mouth to muffle the surprised noise, not wanting to startle Victor.

Usually, Yuri is on the receiving end. They've tried it both ways, but he sort of likes it, likes the way Victor's body bends over his; it's warm and comforting, and the feeling of Victor inside of him is...well. It's nice. This is what he'd been expecting, but Victor seems to have other plans. Yuri remembers him saying 'let me do everything', and it clicks.

“Victor,” Yuri says, muffled behind his hands.

Victor opens his eyes to look down at Yuri, and he has the audacity and the wherewithal to wink, even as a noise works its way out of his throat. No, it doesn't work its way out; Victor lets it tumble its way into the air, because he likes to. He likes letting Yuri know exactly what he's feeling, with sounds and words and noises.

Yuri feels like he's dying. Is it possible to die from sex? He might be the first person under the age of 90 to do so.

Briefly, Yuri wishes he could see it, Victor's fingers working in and out of himself. He considers being ashamed for a moment, but throws that out the window when Victor lets out a moan from deep in his chest. If Yuri is a pervert, then Victor definitely is. He wouldn't mind. He's told Yuri he likes him no matter what, and Yuri believes him.

So Yuri watches, and Victor shifts his hips like he's performing, presses his chest out, lets the hair glimmer and fall down his skin.

It feels like it takes ages and yet no time at all before Victor is moving his hand away, shifting up, sliding Yuri's pants the rest of the way off. Yuri watches Victor's muscles shift under taut skin, breathes through his mouth, heavy, chest rising and falling.

There's one more step, Yuri knows, so why is Victor shifting up fully? He's right there, kneeling over Yuri's cock, and Yuri waits for the condom.

Instead, there's slick cold, spread by long fingers. And then Victor shifts, lowers his thighs, and sinks straight down, fingers guiding Yuri inside.

Yuri keens, back arching off the bed, and Victor makes a noise that's too loud and too filthy and too good. Everything is dark, and Yuri realizes he's closed his eyes only to open them again, fix them half-lidded and hazy on the sight of Victor gasping and going down, down, down, mouth open and wet and pink, hair a curtain in front of his face. His hands move up to brace on Yuri's chest, fingers warm. The hair tickles in silver strands over Yuri's bare skin.

This is...Yuri doesn't even have a word for it. His mouth has been open for the past 30 seconds as he struggles to breath through the tight heat, through the way Victor's muscles shift and press around him.

“Oh god,” he's saying, over and over, and there's a breathless laugh.

“I told you,” Victor responds, fingers flexing over Yuri's chest. “Let me do everything.”

This isn't what Yuri expected, obviously. They've done things, but never this—at least, never with Victor on top, sinking down on Yuri. He looks pleased with himself, flush creeping over his cheeks and his nose and his shoulders, contrasting with the silver-gray of the wig that looks so good on him.

Even Yuri's never fantasized about this.

“Victor,” he says, “Victor-”

And then Victor moves, lifts his body up, and Yuri makes another noise. Victor slides back down, friction and heat and slick.

“I'm getting old,” Victor gasps out, nails digging into Yuri's chest as he supports himself. 

Yuri disagrees. Wholeheartedly. He thinks he says so, 'no, no, you're not', because Victor laughs again, soft and breathy, and Yuri's heart thuds too hard in his chest, hard enough for Victor to feel it through his palm.

This is too good. Yuri's hips try to twitch up against the weight, and when they manage to, Victor keens, loud and filthy, arches his back. He is beautiful, and Yuri knows he's this loud both on purpose and because he just truly feels that good, always, and likes to let Yuri know. Arm shaking, Yuri reaches up to brush his fingers over Victor's cock, and Victor's moaning again, eyes sliding closed, dipping forward, hair following to curtain them in.

It's embarrassing, but the more Victor moves his hips, the closer Yuri gets. It's the sensation, the tightness around him, the tickle of soft, thick hair pooling more on Yuri's chest the more Victor bends. It's the way Victor looks so good, the way his mouth drops open and stays that way, the way he says things over and over about how nice it feels, how good Yuri is, how pretty he looks.

Victor is the one who looks pretty, who is nice and good, and Yuri's ashamed he can't even say that. He's too busy gasping for air, barely-there noises that Victor still drinks in.

There's a familiar pressure building in Yuri's stomach. He feels it, and fumbles to stroke Victor with him. Maybe it's dumb, and maybe he's a lot quicker than Victor is, but Yuri likes to come together; he likes feeling that he's making Victor feel as good as Victor is doing for him. Victor's taught him about it, about how to make the other person feel best, and Yuri tries to his hardest to be coordinated. It's hard when his muscles feel buzzed and shaky, when his hand doesn't seem to want to cooperate.

But Victor always knows. He smiles down at Yuri, private, for just the two of them, and then he's shifting his hips, closing his eyes, twisting—

Yuri knows what he's doing. It's something Victor showed him, too, that spot inside that feels wonderful, like molten pleasure. He knows what Victor is feeling when his mouth drops open and a wrecked noise comes out, loud and trembling, and it's suddenly so tight that Yuri can't control himself, can't hold back.

He's coming, back arching, toes curling. Yuri reaches up for something to hold onto, anything to ground himself. Yuri comes up with a fistful of long, silky hair just as Victor makes another noise and something hot, hot, hot spills over Yuri's chest, along with—

Something heavy and cool, tickling and itchy.

Yuri blinks open eyes he hadn't even realized he closed.

The wig is still firmly in his grip, clutched between his fingers. Victor is blinking down at him, looking just as surprised as Yuri feels. His hair...his hair is short, and messier than usual, sticking up at odd angles and yet he still manages to look like the most beautiful person on earth.

And then he laughs.

Victor's laugh is gorgeous, full-bodied and from deep in his chest. Yuri watches his shoulders shake, dumbstruck, and then it hits him exactly what's happened, and he's laughing too, throwing an arm over his face, cheeks flushed with joy and embarrassment and the remnants of an orgasm.

“I think it's ruined,” Victor says, when he's rolled off Yuri to curl up next to him. Yuri likes this part maybe even more than the sex, when they're both warm and content and sleepy, when Victor wraps arms around him and makes him feel safe.

Maybe it is ruined. Yuri makes a small laugh again.

“Too bad,” he says, voice a little shy but...sort of cheeky in a way he doesn't intend. His face immediately heats up afterward, same as it always does when he says something that comes out in a way he sort of doesn't mean. Sort of.

Victor laughs again.

The long hair was beautiful, absolutely. But Yuri watches Victor smile at him, bright and beaming and reaching his eyes, looks at the flush still covering Victor's face and his hair all messy. He reaches up and pats down Victor's hair as best he can; it doesn't do much, but Yuri likes the way it feels under his fingers, smooth and soft. Victor is just as beautiful like this. Yuri smiles back, just as wide.

(He still wouldn't mind if Victor decides to grow it out.)

**Author's Note:**

> i really love victor's long hair and i hope he grows it back out someday for yuri...i was going to tag this hair-pulling but. technically not...... thank you for reading (´,,•ω•,,)


End file.
